


Ready For The Fight and Fate

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ardyn is here to ruin everything, Eventual Happy Ending, Gladdy needs help, M/M, Noct is more than happy to make a believer out of him, Prince!Gladio, Slow Burn, god!Noctis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 12:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17898461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: A kingdom in ruins, his people and loved ones dead, Gladiolus turns to those he had once spurned: the gods.For better or for worse, Retribution hears and answers.





	Ready For The Fight and Fate

**Author's Note:**

> I have a god!Noctis and a prince!Iggy fic, so why not one with Gladdy? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> No beta we die like, uhhh Iedolas.
> 
> If you want some jams:  
> [30 Seconds to Mars - Vox Populi](https://youtu.be/oGeXD2Sq_A8)  
> [Woodkid - Iron](https://youtu.be/vSkb0kDacjs)  
> 

“So the prodigal son finally bends the knee.”

Gladiolus grits his teeth, keeps his eyes trained on the cracked stone on which he kneels upon. He hears featherlight footsteps circle around him, the soft patter of bare feet kicking up broken pebbles. A particularly sharp stone rolls into his view, and he stares at that instead. The barely lit torches cast dancing shadows around them, and he catches the echo of this other being’s form. He can’t tell if it’s humanoid or not.

“Why now? You blasphemed our names, tore down our shrines and effigies. And here you are, groveling on the floor so unlike the proud and regal prince you once were.” Gladio can hear the mocking smile in its voice, and it takes all of his will to push down on the pride that thrashed among the broken pillars of his castle. “So let me ask a better question. Why should I help you, a non-believer who spurned my very existence, when I could just leave you to meet out your due end?”

Because he shouldn't, because Gladio has no right to come to the gods after all that he's denied them. He knows this, and so does the god who prowls around him like a vicious predator circling its hapless prey. But he knows how negotiations and deals work; he's had his hand in many of his father's council sessions, learned from the finest tutors and diplomats in the art of politics. The fact that this god had decided to humor him with its presence means there's an interest, that there is something Gladio could offer. But because the gods are finicky and whimsical and never cut right to the chase, he needs to figure out what exactly the god sees in him — and quickly, before it loses interest and Gladio's last hope is smothered alongside the rubble of his nation.

After biding his time and taking the blows of the god's sharp words in silence — the not so subtle insults adding salt to his open wounds of seeing the last of his kingdom burn under black flames — he swallows thickly as he chooses his next words carefully. He knows not who he's summoned or if this deity is malevolent or benign. It could be a demon in disguise or a powerful spirit posing as some higher power, keeping up with the ruse so it could lure him into its trap and devour his soul and flesh and bones.

And Gladio only knows two things. One, this god clings to a masculine form, judging by the voice. Not by sight, because he had not dared to lift his eyes from the dark stone floor of this deserted and broken temple. And more importantly, two, that this is the only one to answer his plea and he could absolutely not fuck this up. His kingdom and his people were dead and gone, all buried underneath the thundering march of his enemies’ boots, and he had literally nothing left to lose. Even his life was forfeited the moment his father shoved him into the one-way passage that led to the forest edge, before he saw the blood spring forth from the sword impaled into the king’s chest.

Only, now that he’s at his lowest, he has everything to gain. And what he wants are revenge and justice, to see Iedolas' head perched upon a spike and decorating his front yard. For retribution alone, he would offer _anything._

“I’d offer you my kingdom and my crown, but I don't have either — not anymore,” Gladio says slowly, trying not to grieve over his loss. Not yet, not now.

“So a king of nothing kneels here. But gold and silk never interested me.” It sounds unimpressed but not uninterested.

Gladio figured as much, so he's left with what should have been burned out with the rest of his people. “I don't know what a mortal's life is worth, but it's all I have to give. I can give you worship, praises, sacrifices, whatever it is you gods like. If you help me, I'll rebuild the shrines my family tore down. I'll turn Iedolas’ bones into an effigy in your name, even.”

“Ah, the Mad King.”

Gladio flinches at the title, anger boiling at just the mere mention of Iedolas’ moniker. The agonizing seconds that tick by is enough to cool it though, and he thinks it's done. It's all over. He didn't think his single life was worth much to a god anyway, but it was worth the shot. So he wonders what his next move should be, if there's anyone left to resist Iedolas’ blight —

“So be it. Your fleeting life is mine.”

Gladio feels cool fingers slide along his bare neck, and he can't help the shudder the foreign touch invokes. He almost can't believe the words he so clearly heard, except the fire that licks at the places he's been touched is more than enough to ground him.

“My will, your law.”

He closes his eyes and grits his teeth as fingers trace a pattern down his back, across his shoulders, and he feels a burn follow the shadows of his touches, a bone-deep sensation that reaches into Gladio’s very soul and coils magics around his fragments. He knows it's a contract, proof etched into his skin, proof he's signed his life away. Surprisingly, he isn't bitter about it.

“My word, your bible.”

This time, the voice ghosts the shell of his ear, its hand palming the front of his chest right over his heart. It burns the greatest here, and he's unable to hold back the sudden gasp, the magic piercing and needling under his skin. Gladio opens his eyes to see pale feet before him, not a speck of dirt or dust on porcelain skin, despite pacing around this decrepit place. He still doesn't look up, out of fear. If he dares raise his eyes now, he threatens to break what promise is being burned into him, to lose this miraculous favor he's been given when no one else would offer. And maybe, he fears the unknown. Of what little stories he's heard of gods, he knows some to depict them as beautiful creatures, others as fearsome beings surrounded by flames and blinding light.

“My name, your god.”

The burn spreads across his shoulder blades and down both his arms, but the pain is a dull ache and no longer searing. Or perhaps, it never dulled in the first place, but all his nerves turn their attention to the fleeting touch trailing down his jaw and under his chin. Two fingers command him to lift his head, and he does as ordered. In the past, he would have _never_ put his knee to the cold dirty stone, never allowed someone to touch him so boldly. But that had been the time in which Gladio was royalty; now he's only a man whose will is chained and tethered to a being who lords over him.

He stiffens, however, when he meets two ice-steel eyes, a gaze so sharp and deep that he feels his soul lay itself utterly bare for dissection. He lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding, only to have the air sucked clean out of him right after. The god finalizes their pact, and takes a piece of Gladio's soul as down payment and collateral, stealing his fragments right from his pliant lips. He feels something inside him shift, to make room for some heavy chain that wraps its burning coils around his soul, replacing what was taken from him.

Gladiolus sees black, and tastes blood in his mouth and a foreign name on his tongue.

“And what is this god's name?” it asks, almost sarcastically, one note away from mocking. And Gladio knows, the way it burns his mouth as it demands to be freed.

“Noctis.”

He whispers it with a reverence he never thought possible, especially not from such a heretic as he. It feels too smooth on his tongue and slips so easily from his lips. _Because of the contract,_ he wants to believe. But he can't help but feel every word fall to dust and ruin before the god's name. As if he learned speech only to utter that single word, like his voice was given just for this one moment.

He thinks it possible. So much so when he sees that sharp curve of a smile — those lips that had just sealed Gladio’s fate, turn loving and frightening and vicious all at the same time. Thunder rumbles the stone walls, and the foundation of his entire world crumbles and remakes itself within Noctis’ torturous hands.

“Who are you?” He thinks it’s a rude question, an insult, but their contract is done; if what he’s heard of the gods is true, then Noctis won’t break his promise, won’t call their deal off and eat him alive. He should know this, really. But all he had was a name and this unfamiliar tether weighing in his chest.

Noctis’ smile turns crooked, and Gladio can’t tell if he looks amused or slighted.  

The god — no, _his_ god — turns his eyes and follows the trail of his fingertips that graze over the feathered pattern of Gladio’s chest, the testament to their vows. What follows is an entirely different burn, not painful but hauntingly _pleasant._ In the dim firelight of the crude torches, he sees a blue flame swirl beneath the frozen steel of his eyes. There is power here. Power that could include him into the dust of the earth, yet it's reigned in under featherlight touches and a strangely gentle caress, as Noctis’ hand turns to cup Gladio's dirt and blood-stained cheek.

He looks at him almost lovingly, except his too sharp teeth and slitted eyes invoke fear and awe. Gladio thinks the myths and legends to be true: Noctis is both terrifying and magnificent. He's a marble statue come to live, but he exudes raw energy and arcane magic, and it bleeds into the air around him. Gladio had smelled the charged ozone the moment Noctis had came to him, atoms and physics bending to his will or cracking under his sovereignty.

His lips part in a cold but not cruel laugh, and Gladio believes it to be a beautiful sound. Because it sounds like vengeance, justice, a promise of redemption.

“You should at least know the names of the gods you so hated, or just what they hold dominion over.” Noctis’ eyes crinkle in amusement, and his smile is genuine. He strokes his thumb at the dark bag underneath Gladio's eye before removing his hand to grasp gently at the back of his neck.

Noctis draws their foreheads together, and once again Gladio feels breathless as he loses himself in those chasms of frozen darkness, enough to ignore the way the god's fingernails dig dangerously close to an artery.

Noctis’ whispers sound like the awe-inspiring notes of a grand organ, reverberating against the broken remains of the temple ruins like it would a church's marble and gold walls; and never did Gladio think he would find himself a worshipper basking in the sonorous hymns of Noctis’ voice.

“I am the moonless night in which the scorned seek out their wrongdoers and receive their due in blood, the edge of the guillotine that takes the life of murderers and rapists only to give it back to the bereaved.”

Gladio feels his pulse quicken underneath those fingertips.

“I am the steel of swords, the screams of soldiers and peasants, as they seek to right what has been wronged. I am the hammer that turns evil into justice, the cold silence that precedes and follows the promise of vengeance.”

And he can see it. He sees the visions Noctis paints for him, sees the _future_ of what is promised to him.

“I am their Retribution. I am your Avenger.”

Gladio had never put much stock in the gods. But in this moment, he can do nothing but believe. He's been baptized in the fire of his god, made a covenant of his own flesh, and borne witness to the revelations. He shudders under the god's touch, feels himself vulnerable under that suffocating gaze, but he can't help but want and seek out _more._

When Noctis removes himself, Gladio barely holds back the disappointment, and he misses the heat on his skin. His gaze trails after the other, who walks to the runes etched into the cracked walls. Noctis traces something, running his fingers over the faint echoes, and the once lost magic is breathed back to life, power pulsing through the stone.

“I promise you your justice. But for now, you rest. You won't be able to fight a war in the state you're in.”

Gladio realizes they're protection spells, and he's trying to decipher them when Noctis suddenly pulls at him from behind. He was just there, in front of him off to the walls. Gladio flails his arms as he falls backwards, hands grasping at air, until he finds his head cradled within the god's lap. The jagged and hard stone beneath him should be jutting into his spine but all he feels is a comfortable firmness, a reminder of his royal chambers. It doesn't make sense, but he doesn't want to ruin the moment, not when his eyelids feel so heavy right now and his limbs weighted with lead. He hadn't been so tired before.

“Rest,” Noctis repeats, “Everything can wait until morning.”

Gladio does as he's commanded, but he doesn't think he'd be able to disobey even if he wanted. He catches a glimpse of something odd and foreign in Noctis’ careful gaze, and he wonders if it's supposed to be sympathy or tenderness or perhaps something else entirely. He doesn't have much energy to dwell on it, however, and everything blurs at its edges until he's lost in black when he feels a hand cover his eyes. Instead of the nightmares that had plagued him, the visions of blood and his father's falling body, he dreams of a warm darkness and its stars.

  


 

When he wakes, it is with no pain or ache. He somehow _knows_ his wounds are healed, and the knowledge is what prompts him into opening his eyes. Gladio sits up and pats down his chest and arms, searching for the evidence — or lack thereof — that he had been wounded in the first place, until he gets a good look at his arms and sees the brand that feathers out and splays across his skin. It's a stark reminder that last night had been real and not a figment of his delirious and grief-stricken imagination. It comes as a relief.

“I can't heal, if that's what you're wondering. I asked Luna to.”

Gladio swivels his head around, sees Noctis looking ridiculously graceful as he sits cross-legged on the floor. He furrows his eyebrows.

“Luna. Lunafreya.” Noctis gestures helplessly in the air.

Gladio isn't understanding what he's saying, or who Lunafreya is. Noctis catches notice and sighs, shaking his head lightly as his soft dark tresses brush his cheeks.

“I had forgotten you know nothing about us. Lunafreya is a god, sister to Ravus, to Allegiance. She is the soft moonlight that brings comfort to the broken, the light that brightens the path walked in darkness. She aids the sick and broken, grants miracles with her touch, and breathes life with her kiss,” Noctis explains. There's a certain fondness in his eyes as he speaks about her. “She is Hope when all is lost.”

“Oh, then my thanks to Lunafreya.” It's… awkward, thanking a god he was raised to deny. But Gladio is sincerely grateful, regardless.

He turns fully around to face Noctis, mimicking his posture and crossing his legs, when he sees two figures cross the rubble of the temple entrance. It’s daylight now; he must have slept through the entire night. He tenses, and all his muscles tighten and poise to _attack,_ when Noctis stares him down and merely lifts a hand. _Somehow,_ Gladio knows it's a sign to stand down. And he does so, albeit begrudgingly. He doesn't like how Noctis holds the reins, how a simple gesture is enough to cow him. He's used to giving orders, not receiving them.

Noctis turns his wrist to have his palm face up, and one of the men places a small basket in his hand. He takes it and places it on the floor, sliding it across the stone to Gladio.

Gladio sees the contents, recognizes the fruits that are set to one side and the cooked rabbit that lies separate by some sort of thin parchment.

“Breakfast?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. He wasn't expecting, well, this. But to be honest, he had no idea what he had been getting himself into in the first place. He picks off a slightly charred piece of meat and pops it into his mouth regardless. It's slightly bitter from the burnt skin and in desperate want of seasoning, but his stomach doesn't complain, not when he's gone days without eating.

“I want to clarify some things with you,” Noctis says, resting his elbows on his legs. He entwines his fingers together, and he leans forward with his chin propped on top of his knuckles. The two men flank both of his sides, the shorter blonde on his right and the brunette on his left.

“Fair enough,” Gladio says, after swallowing down his food. He eyes them suspiciously. Introductions would come later, apparently.

“You know how we work, at the very least?”

Of course he knows that much. The gods never do the work directly. They operate in the shadows, act as puppeteers pulling on strings from above in their heavenly thrones or from some spiritual plane. Oracles and prophets speak for them, grant blessings in their stead, channeling divine power through some sort of link.

And it's precisely because of this shady process his family had scorned the gods for generations. They were heretics and  nonbelievers, but they ruled well, took care of their kingdom and their people. His father and rest of the royal did what they could, aid the sick and poor, distribute reasonable justice and the likes. But the Amicitias looked upon the gods with scorn. Too many times did religion birth bloody crusades and false gods, killing and persecuting needlessly to bring glory to some deity who didn't deserve even a single utterance. Their priests and supposed Oracles were swindlers and tradesmen at heart, tricking the poor and broken to wring out whatever coin they had left. These “great” gods kept to their cozy palaces and watched from above, toyed with humans as expendable playthings and threw souls into twisted fates for their own enjoyment.

They didn't deserve worship.

“I do. Never do anything yourselves, I got that. I don't expect you to fight my battles for me.” His words come out more scalding than he means to, but it's no simple undertaking to shrug off what had been instilled into him his entire life. Gladio grimaced only slightly. In any other situation with facing a god before him, he would have been more careful; but he bears a covenant with Noctis, which includes a promise that his god will not kill him until their vows are fulfilled. And hopefully, he’ll make a decent enough impression for Noctis to let him go in the end.

The god seems to take no offense to the heated tone, however. “Good. Because I will not stride into the war fields and turn your enemies to dust myself.” He lifts his hands, one gesturing to each of the men at his sides. “They will.”

Gladio nearly chokes on a grape, and he coughs it up, the round fruit rolling across the floor to land at the blonde's shoe. “What?” he rasps through the tears at his eyes, thumping his chest with his fist.

Noctis breathes out a silent laugh. “My Wardens, my most trusted overseers.”

“Ignis Scientia,” says the one on the left as he adjusts his glasses, “The holy fire that bathes the corrupted and nefarious, the flames that burn away the rot of the wound so it may heal, the eternal pyre of rightful judgment and Retribution.”

“Prompto Argentum,” chirps the other, “I'm the swift silver of the executioner's blade, the flash of metal that glints off a mother's knife as she slits the throat of her child's murderer, the final shot of rightful judgment and Retribution.” A bright smile splits across face. “And lover of all things Chocobos.”

Ignis rolls his eyes and groans, sharing a _look_ with Noctis, who only returns the gaze with a shrug.

“But you gods don't do things yourselves?” Gladio questions, though it's more of an uncertain statement. He stops picking at his food, attention entirely focused on the three before him.

“We are not gods. We are his Wardens. I am the holy —”

“Yeah, I think he heard us fine the first time, Iggy,” Prompto quips, before the other could run through his introduction again. He looks to Gladio and shrugs. “We were like you. Humans once, believe it or not.”

Gladio narrows his eyes in skepticism. He's heard stories and myths of legendary heroes ascending to godhood or the likes, but they were only that. Stories.

“No longer humans but not quite gods,” Noctis adds, closing his eyes and nodding sagely. “They act for me when I can't.”

“When you _can't?_ Aren't you gods, y'know, omnipotent?”

With a long suffering sigh, Ignis steps forward. “To some degree, yes. But what would happen if such all-powerful beings clashed with wild abandon? Humankind and the entirety of Eos would be left in ruins and chaos. So the gods made a pact. Should they ever disagree or desire to meddle in human affairs, they would never do so directly and instead use mediums — Oracles, prophets, Wardens, ‘Chosen’ kings and queens or heroes. Even a heretic as you should know that much.”

“Ignis.”

“Apologies,” he says to Noctis. “Ex-heretic. A devout worshipper and blessed champion now, I do believe.” The look he offers Gladio is almost condescending, with that subtle smirk and lift of his brow.

Gladio does his best to ignore that and clears his throat. “Alright, so let me get this straight. I'll have these two pseudo gods fighting with me? That's actually a lot more than I was expecting.”

Noctis smiles wryly. “With a caveat.”

It's Prompto who speaks up now. “We won't be going around and making everyone drop like lead flies. There's some weird and specific rules about how we Wardens get to work but yeah, that's the idea. Except two ‘pseudo gods’ and a prince won't be enough to stop a crazy army and a crazier king.”

“So we make our own.”

They all turn to Noctis, Gladio half-expecting him to summon up a marching brigade at this point.

“You aren't the only one who holds a grudge against Iedolas. More than a handful of kingdoms and nations have fallen because of him, which you could say, works in your favor. There's only say, several thousands who wish for Retribution, wish to see their slain comrades and families avenged.”

It's certainly true. Tenebrae was the first to fall; the midnight attack drowned her forests in a sea of flames, and she was conquered in less than a week. Altissia was confident they would not be invaded; sea-locked as they were, Niflheim would certainly have troubles reaching her island fortresses. But no one expected the flying machines that carried its soldiers across the great oceans. Without a proper military or defense, the lovely island nation was turned into ruins in a matter of days. Niflheim was spreading its claws like a cancer, systematically destroying everything as it greedily swallowed up whatever it came across.

“We'll start with the Galahdians,” Noctis continues, “Nyx Ulric, the one they call ‘Hero,’ and his little ragtag group. Then onto Leide and Duscae and Cleigne, where the Hunters are scattered across. Altissia and Tenebrae have long since fallen, but there are plenty of those who long for freedom and revenge.”

Gladio's head goes spinning. It'll be a lot of travel, a lot of time spent recruiting and staying under Iedolas’ radar. The idea is so daunting he wonders if it would all be possible. But of course it is. He is an Amicitia, wrought from iron and stone, and even if the gods would declare him their enemy, _nothing_ would stand in his way.

But the gods aren't against him — not when he has one vying for his victory. And the fact that Noctis is already putting his plans into motion, actively giving his aid instead of watching at the sidelines is… Almost scary.

Gladio looks from Prompto to Ignis and back to Noctis. “Not to put this the wrong way, but this is a lot more than I expected. It's almost… Unfair?”

Noctis’ expression suddenly goes tight, all mirth replaced by sober eyes and a low voice. “It long stopped being fair when Ardyn started all this.”

Whoever this Ardyn is, it's not good, judging the way his two Wardens stiffen up. Ignis’ jaw perceptively tenses, and even Prompto's sunny aura clouds over.

“Ardyn? This is his doing?” Ignis asks, voice gone rigid.

Noctis sighs and nods, his shoulders sagging as he presses the heel of his palm onto his eye. “He twisted some rules, and of course leave it up to him to find loopholes in our pact. But he's wormed his way into Iedolas, and none of us know what he's really planning or what the reason is.”

“Yeah, well, since when did Ardyn need a reason for anything?” Prompto says, his face scrunching up in distaste. He sounds bitter, almost venomous, a stark contrast to his upbeat personality only moments before. “He didn't need one when he went screwin’ around with my life when I was still human.”

“Ardyn?” Gladio asks, a bit too sharply. He's more than curious about this Ardyn fellow, a god by the sound of it, and the perpetrator for all the disaster and chaos that plunged his kingdom into rubble.

“A god. For the past centuries he's been mostly silent and he fell into obscurity for a time. Until now. Iedolas’ mad conquering spree is from Ardyn's influence,” Noctis answers.

“Why is he doing this?”

“For the only reason he does anything else. Because he's bored and wants to play.” Prompto speaks with that same bitterness. With the way he spits out the words, Gladio knows the guy does _not_ have a good history with Ardyn. He almost feels sorry, but at least they both have a common ground to stand on.

Noctis rises from the stone and dusts off his pants, as if any dirt had gotten on him in the first place. “Bahamut has his hands tied right now, so I'm only levelling the playing field. Iedolas has Ardyn, but now you have me.”

He smiles, a grin so confident and promising that Gladio believes his every word and vow.

“It’ll take time and effort, sweat and blood, but you Amicitias know all about that.” Noctis extends a hand and beckons the other to stand. Gladio obeys, and his god curls his fingers around the lapels of his tattered jacket, dragging the man’s face down to his own. “So just you wait, Prince. For all the denial and heresy you’ve spoken against me, I’ll make a believer out of you yet.”

Noctis’ warm whispers ghost against his own lips, and Gladio wonders if this is another vow in the making. Despite himself, Gladio feels a surge of arrogance and wants to test the waters of his new god’s patience. He quirks a haughty grin and stares into the deep blue pools of Noctis’ eyes. “Is that a promise?” he asks, almost challenging.

Noctis, however, sees through the ruse and lowers his lashes, and he laughs against Gladio’s lips. His fingers uncurl themselves from the leather lapels and move up to lightly grasp the prince’s dark locks, matted with blood and dirt. He slides his hands through them easily enough, and he gently digs his fingernails into Gladio’s skull and tugs him closer.

“A promise.” He passes his lips across Gladio’s, sees the expectant and _hungry_ gaze in this haughty mortal, and stops just a hair’s width before pushing him away. “For another time, dear Champion.”

Gladio swallows down the disappointment, quells the heat rising in his skin. He can work with that; they had all this time, after all, and Gladio could be insufferably patient when he wants to be.

“But for now, my prince, we’ve a war to win.”

Noctis extends a hand. Behind him, where the sunlight peeks through the temple entrance and bathes his dark form with golden light, Gladio imagines a shining halo encompassing his very edges. Like a valkyrie come to take this warrior spirit to the next realm, where his father and his old friends wait. But not yet, not when he's promised a war to fight, and he can't die until he sees Iedolas’ corpse for himself. So instead as a spirit come to whisk him away, Gladio sets him as a goal, a challenge, and a pledge all in one.

“Yeah,” he says thickly, swallowing the anticipation and awe in his voice. He takes Noctis’ outstretched hand, and he's helped up with little to no effort. “Yeah, we do.”

Prompto jumps up and slaps a friendly hand on his back, chirping on about how they'll all get along just fine. Ignis already starts fleshing out Noctis’ plans, throwing ideas and possible avenues this way and that. Between both the Wardens’ words jumbling into each other, Gladio can barely process what either of them say.

The only thing he understands is Noctis’ wicked grin and the glint in his eye, and the oath seared onto his lips and skin. His low laughter sounds like war drums, and Gladio's pulse quickens to match the cadence.

“Ready?” Noctis asks, leading them out of the temple and into the sunlight.

Gladio squints against the harsh rays, but he welcomes them nonetheless. He'll welcome more than a little light, in fact. Rather, bring him fire and steel and gunpowder.

“Ready.”


End file.
